Day & (K)night (Bond/Bronco vs. Knights of Anarchy)
May 28, 2015 4:08:28 GMT -5
Post by Bondo on May 28, 2015 4:08:28 GMT -5
It began a day like any other day. I woke up 6:30 AM. Fixed breakfast for the boy and took him to pre-school. I drove the commute to work, cursing at all of the idiotic North Carolina drivers. I parked my car in my own, personal space. (A perk of being head trainer of the Lion’s Den Fight Club!) Unlocked the doors to the academy and turned the lights on and went to work watching some scouting videos for the LDFC. At precisely 10:30 AM the advanced class made their way into the Den for the daily in-ring training session. We started our warm up drills and before you knew it, the class was paired up and practicing the weekly drills. Jumps, falls, kip-ups, and everything else they needed to practice. Just as we started in on practicing some submission holds that focused on the leg, at first a Boston crab. Then we moved on to the ever-so-popular ankle lock. And then we got a little more advanced with a few holds like figure-four leg lock and one my personal faves, the Texas Cloverleaf. But then I got roped in to showing them my variation of the rolling knee bar; something I picked up about five years back. Just as I had one of the students in the hold, I heard some murmuring amongst the class. I heard a faint, sarcastic clapping. And that’s when I looked over at him through the ropes. He hovered more than stood, like some sort of apparition, looking worst for wear than most of my old running buddies. A literal living legend. Seems like the first time I have laid eyes on him in almost 10 years. That vibrancy that had defined him, dwindling; a shell of his former self…
Patrick fucking McCarthy.
I smirked at him, forgetting I had someone in a dangerous (and mind you painful) knee hold; and then his words walked their way out of his mouth like Gene Wilder in “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory”: slowly, full of suspense and just a tad bit whimsical. I don’t know, maybe whimsical is a poor choice of wording; but nostalgia has kicked in by this time and I find myself grinning from ear to ear.
McCarthy – "Why don't you pick on someone your own age?"
I release the hold, realizing by now the class has lost its attention span; so I push myself to one knee. I grab hold of my obligatory whistle and signal for them to start running laps. I roll out of the ring, wearing only the finest pair of athletic shorts and a cut-off “#FGAProud” t-shirt. Pulling up a pair of folding chairs, I motion for man to sit down. I squeeze some water from my bottle sitting next to some of my other obligatory teacher-like things, namely a clipboard with some notes scribbled on it.
Bond – “To what do I owe such an honor of being graced with your presence?”
McCarthy – "I came to see the master at work, obviously."
The two share a quick laugh.
Bond – “You know word on the street was that you croaked; I gotta say, they weren’t far off. You look like shit, man. Time has not been your friend.”
A quick glance at him would easily do my words a disservice. As a moniker, I call myself a battle-hardened veteran. But Patrick McCarthy looks like a soldier from battles past, one who war had landed upon, taking him from crayons to machine guns. I look at the wrinkles and scars and wonder if this will be me in five years? Ten years? Will I need a crutch to prop myself up with? A cane? Would I be bound to a wheel chair? How fair would that be to my son who has already lost so much? …I realize I zoned out and am quickly brought back to reality.
McCarthy - "Time has never been my friend, but I'm glad to say that rumors of my demise were greatly exaggerated."
His words and his smirk bring back a flood of memories. Patrick McCarthy had always had this stubbornness about him; a sort of will to live in a world that really wasn't worth living in. He'd been equal parts perennial underdog and unstoppable force. In the ring, I'd seen him taking beatings that would've broken lesser men. Even through the weathered features, his pale-blue eyes still held life. It was nice to know he still fought the world the way he fought everyone else.
Bond - "So what can I do for you?"
The smirk fades from McCarthy's face.
McCarthy - "I need a favor. It's something I'd do myself if I could hold up, but..."
His voice trails off. He'd never been one to ask for help, even outmanned and outgunned.
Bond - "What is it?"
McCarthy - "There's this kid. His name's Jason. Jason Bronco."
Bronco. A name even bigger than "McCarthy." But it belong to Isaac Bronco, the man who trained McCarthy and was a legend in his own right before retiring from the business to open his own wrestling school. Dom Harter was a student of his. And Malcolm Drake. McCarthy continues.
McCarthy - "He's Isaac's son. Eighteen years old. A good kid... a great kid. He wants to do... THIS... for a living. He looks at me and at his dad and he doesn't see the men we are now. We aged and fell apart too close to him. I don't want him to do it. His dad has all but out-right forbidden it, but he's persistent. And worse... he's good. Better than me... better than Isaac. He's going to do it, whether we like it or not. I just... I want him to do it the right way."
His words carry the quality of prose on crumpled paper. It's like he's giving praise and a eulogy at the same time. But there's an unmistakable surety in his voice. A confidence. There's no doubt in my mind that this kid, this Bronco kid, is something else.
Bond - "So, what do you need from me, man? I'm sure if you and Isaac trained him, he's more than ready."
McCarthy - "I can't... be there for him like I have been. And Isaac... well, he's not going to like it at all. I'm asking... I need you to look after him. Take him under your wing. Keep him away from all the shit and all the mistakes that we made. Chris..."
It's the first time I've heard him speak my name in over a decade. The effect is hypnotic, vice-like.
McCarthy - "He could better than any of us, man. But he'll need help. He'll need your help. I know I'm asking a lot..."
I look at him, the regret in his eyes for not being there for him.
Bond – “I don't know man. I've got the Den, the FGA, my son...”
McCarthy – “At least take a look at this tape. It’s just one of our training sessions. Please, just take a look.”
I look at him, befuddled as he hands me a tape.
Bond – “OUR training sessions?”
He smirks a little.
McCarthy – “I can still go, Bondo. I just can’t bump.”
I nod, assuring him I understand. So we head off to my office, and by office I mean a ten foot by twelve foot room with a desk, chair, television DVD/VHS combo and books and tapes as far as the eye can see. No elaborate mahogany desks or wingback chairs here. There is however a replica of my FGA PRIDE title belt sitting under a glass display. Beautiful fucking thing that it is…
McCarthy – “Seriously, I can move. I’m not dead yet.”
Bond – “Okay, I’m not saying anything…”
I offer him a seat, laughing at the whole situation, as I push the tape into the video cassette player. The television monitor comes to life and before I know it, I’m watching this beautiful production unfold before my eyes. Speed, agility, amazing flow. Confidence, not arrogance, oozing from this kid’s pores. I find myself leaning against the desk, my hand covering my obvious smile. McCarthy looks up at me, a slight smirk on his face as I stand there, amazed at this natural talent playing on my screen.
Patrick fucking McCarthy.
I smirked at him, forgetting I had someone in a dangerous (and mind you painful) knee hold; and then his words walked their way out of his mouth like Gene Wilder in “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory”: slowly, full of suspense and just a tad bit whimsical. I don’t know, maybe whimsical is a poor choice of wording; but nostalgia has kicked in by this time and I find myself grinning from ear to ear.
McCarthy – "Why don't you pick on someone your own age?"
I release the hold, realizing by now the class has lost its attention span; so I push myself to one knee. I grab hold of my obligatory whistle and signal for them to start running laps. I roll out of the ring, wearing only the finest pair of athletic shorts and a cut-off “#FGAProud” t-shirt. Pulling up a pair of folding chairs, I motion for man to sit down. I squeeze some water from my bottle sitting next to some of my other obligatory teacher-like things, namely a clipboard with some notes scribbled on it.
Bond – “To what do I owe such an honor of being graced with your presence?”
McCarthy – "I came to see the master at work, obviously."
The two share a quick laugh.
Bond – “You know word on the street was that you croaked; I gotta say, they weren’t far off. You look like shit, man. Time has not been your friend.”
A quick glance at him would easily do my words a disservice. As a moniker, I call myself a battle-hardened veteran. But Patrick McCarthy looks like a soldier from battles past, one who war had landed upon, taking him from crayons to machine guns. I look at the wrinkles and scars and wonder if this will be me in five years? Ten years? Will I need a crutch to prop myself up with? A cane? Would I be bound to a wheel chair? How fair would that be to my son who has already lost so much? …I realize I zoned out and am quickly brought back to reality.
McCarthy - "Time has never been my friend, but I'm glad to say that rumors of my demise were greatly exaggerated."
His words and his smirk bring back a flood of memories. Patrick McCarthy had always had this stubbornness about him; a sort of will to live in a world that really wasn't worth living in. He'd been equal parts perennial underdog and unstoppable force. In the ring, I'd seen him taking beatings that would've broken lesser men. Even through the weathered features, his pale-blue eyes still held life. It was nice to know he still fought the world the way he fought everyone else.
Bond - "So what can I do for you?"
The smirk fades from McCarthy's face.
McCarthy - "I need a favor. It's something I'd do myself if I could hold up, but..."
His voice trails off. He'd never been one to ask for help, even outmanned and outgunned.
Bond - "What is it?"
McCarthy - "There's this kid. His name's Jason. Jason Bronco."
Bronco. A name even bigger than "McCarthy." But it belong to Isaac Bronco, the man who trained McCarthy and was a legend in his own right before retiring from the business to open his own wrestling school. Dom Harter was a student of his. And Malcolm Drake. McCarthy continues.
McCarthy - "He's Isaac's son. Eighteen years old. A good kid... a great kid. He wants to do... THIS... for a living. He looks at me and at his dad and he doesn't see the men we are now. We aged and fell apart too close to him. I don't want him to do it. His dad has all but out-right forbidden it, but he's persistent. And worse... he's good. Better than me... better than Isaac. He's going to do it, whether we like it or not. I just... I want him to do it the right way."
His words carry the quality of prose on crumpled paper. It's like he's giving praise and a eulogy at the same time. But there's an unmistakable surety in his voice. A confidence. There's no doubt in my mind that this kid, this Bronco kid, is something else.
Bond - "So, what do you need from me, man? I'm sure if you and Isaac trained him, he's more than ready."
McCarthy - "I can't... be there for him like I have been. And Isaac... well, he's not going to like it at all. I'm asking... I need you to look after him. Take him under your wing. Keep him away from all the shit and all the mistakes that we made. Chris..."
It's the first time I've heard him speak my name in over a decade. The effect is hypnotic, vice-like.
McCarthy - "He could better than any of us, man. But he'll need help. He'll need your help. I know I'm asking a lot..."
I look at him, the regret in his eyes for not being there for him.
Bond – “I don't know man. I've got the Den, the FGA, my son...”
McCarthy – “At least take a look at this tape. It’s just one of our training sessions. Please, just take a look.”
I look at him, befuddled as he hands me a tape.
Bond – “OUR training sessions?”
He smirks a little.
McCarthy – “I can still go, Bondo. I just can’t bump.”
I nod, assuring him I understand. So we head off to my office, and by office I mean a ten foot by twelve foot room with a desk, chair, television DVD/VHS combo and books and tapes as far as the eye can see. No elaborate mahogany desks or wingback chairs here. There is however a replica of my FGA PRIDE title belt sitting under a glass display. Beautiful fucking thing that it is…
McCarthy – “Seriously, I can move. I’m not dead yet.”
Bond – “Okay, I’m not saying anything…”
I offer him a seat, laughing at the whole situation, as I push the tape into the video cassette player. The television monitor comes to life and before I know it, I’m watching this beautiful production unfold before my eyes. Speed, agility, amazing flow. Confidence, not arrogance, oozing from this kid’s pores. I find myself leaning against the desk, my hand covering my obvious smile. McCarthy looks up at me, a slight smirk on his face as I stand there, amazed at this natural talent playing on my screen.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Time is fleeting.
And only one thing in life is guaranteed. One day we all will die.
So we fight every day to move ourselves up the ladder; to find ourselves a better place atop the mountain.
What makes our lives so interesting, so worth living is that each and every day we have the opportunity to achieve greatness. To one day have our names etched in stone, the story of our lives monumented for generations to come.
This year marks the return of the Dynamic Duos Tag-Team Tournament. At three years old, and with amazing tag-teams that have come before, only two teams are lucky enough to hold the honor of having won them. And as of right now, none of those four men are even active on the FGA roster.
My point is that even as the light of glory shines down bright upon the winners in our history books, eventually the light begins to fade.
The Murder was the first team able to grasp the brass ring of victory. Last year, the Young Guns took the top prize. This year, the field is just as tough, the teams having been rounded up throughout the lands.
And this year, I find myself entered into one of the most talked about tournaments the wrestling world has ever seen.
With names like the U.K. Dragons, Bad Attitude, the Super Mario Wrestling Brothers, and the Mid-Atlantic Wrecking Crew having competed in the inaugural tournament; and teams like Sex Sells and the Sparklebuddies that had fought tooth-and-nail in last year’s Dynamic Duos—we find ourselves at the doorstep of glory.
This year, this year is different. This year is my golden ticket. I was handpicked, given the opportunity to compete in one of the grandest wrestling contests ever created, and my partner, my partner is one of skill and natural-God given talent. A purebred of wrestling royalty.
You just don’t know him yet.
Yes, Jason Bronco is an untested talent. But he personifies talent. His body bleeds this business. His father, an icon. His mentor, a legend. And me, His partner? I’m so grateful to have the opportunity to watch such a young, talented man get his own shot at glory.
Our opportunity isn’t one of guarantee. We have to face off against a team of innovators and noble men. Men who fight the good fight and search for the ever elusive holy grail of professional wrestling. Whatever the hell that means. Larry Gowan and Chauncy Nottingham are two noble warriors; men who have been battle tested, tried and true. But what these two men make up for in battle strategy and innovative style, these two men lack in heart and passion.
For never in the world of professional wrestling has there ever been a team as full of heart and passion for this sport as this one. My team. Jason Bronco and Chris Bond will not fall. We are not on our own quest for some mythical goblet of immortality. We aren’t knights looking to uphold chivalry in an era long past its prime. We are two men fighting to make a name for ourselves in a world increasingly more competitive.
I grew up a kid, hungry for this business. In this business I have matured from young and stupid, reckless and impatient to a man who now molds the future stars of tomorrow. I met my soulmate in this business. I’ve seen the highest of highs and I’ve been face down in the lowest puddle of mud. I eat, sleep, breathe and live this business.
And when I look at Jason, I see everything that was good and great about me, in someone more naturally athletic, more technically sound with a more professionally capable body. The heavens have no limit for this young man.
We may not be the team of Laurel and Hardy. We may not be as vicious and ruthless as the Murder. And we may not be as award winning or full of accolades such as the Knights of Anarchy.
But we are the team of Jason Bronco and Chris Bond. And we are the next champions of the Dynamic Duos Tournament. We have the heart. We have the passion. We have the drive and the desire. No matter the men or women who will stand before us. We will not fall, we will not fail.
This is our golden opportunity. We are going to make the most of it. And it won’t even have the chance to slip through our fingers.
You may laugh or scoff at the notion. A team untested. A man in the twilight of his career, training the young bucks of tomorrow. And a kid so new to this business, his hands are still green. For we are the total package. And we are the full circle of professional wrestling. From our roots in the past, to my ties to the present, and to the unbridled potential for success that his future holds. We are the only team designed to win this thing. The masters of fate have drafted us together for the chance of a lifetime. And we will not be deterred.
In case you have all forgotten, this is MY Frontier.
And this… this tournament…
THIS.
IS.
OURS!
_____________________________________________________________________________________
I spent that night outside, on my back stoop. The little man had a hard day and took an early night. I found myself staring up at the stars a lot more often now; looking for answers from the heavens so far away.
I found myself staring at her picture more often, too. It had been about two years since we split for good; and I still hadn’t completely moved on. With her, it wasn’t an easy quit. Giving up the alcohol and pain killers was a fucking cake walk compared to trying to quit her. The hours of sweating and chills and twitching; the throwing up and shakes and headaches and hurting and aching, all of that was easier to go through. But shaking her memory, the feeling of her touch, the color of her black onyx nail polish, and the taste of her lips as they lingered in an early morning kiss… it was all too much. And now that she was gone forever, it made it even more difficult to get over her.
Did I turn into a stage 3 clinger? Possibly. But I had spent the better part of my life trying to become something I wasn’t for many of my past romances. With her, I had found myself. And I was able to be myself. She was my soulmate; and I had chased her away. Through my addictions. With my temper. Did I frighten her? Did I not pay her enough attention? I had so many questions for her that were never able to be answered; when we were in the same room together, I was so jealous of her relationship with her current love interest that I would act like a complete dick. And then things would sour even more. I stopped coming around, stopped seeing my son. It hurt so much to see her living my dream with someone else... And then she married some biker douche from Pennsylvania. And before I knew it, she killed herself. I wasn’t allowed to say my goodbye. I got notified by the state of Pennsylvania that I had to pick up my son. She was cremated and her remains are God knows where.
The agony that I have within has killed my hope for a happy ever after. I have my son. I am now finding myself to be tested with patience I hadn’t realized I had even had. The unilateral love that he gives me, it is trying to mend my broken heart. But there are moments of the day when I see so much of his mom that it just pains me to even move on. But I do it for him. I guess that’s what it means to truly grow up.
But even though I have lost her, I still have the academy. I have my career. So I’ve been burying myself up to my eyeballs in work. Trying to find that next talent; trying to give the future an opportunity to reach for the stars. And today, an opportunity to help a friend, to help a young talent blossom into a future star—it has fallen at my feet. The little man is excited to see me in action again. My life is not merely some tragedy. I will rewrite my story into one of triumph.
This is a new chapter in my life. No longer will I find my story being told from some book of misery.
Today was the start of a new beginning.
Tonight, I find myself staring up at these stars that shine so bright; they aren’t going to be a representative of the past, dead stars just waiting to shine their last light and fade to darkness. No these stars are going to signal a greater future; one of potential and endless possibilities.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.*
I found myself staring at her picture more often, too. It had been about two years since we split for good; and I still hadn’t completely moved on. With her, it wasn’t an easy quit. Giving up the alcohol and pain killers was a fucking cake walk compared to trying to quit her. The hours of sweating and chills and twitching; the throwing up and shakes and headaches and hurting and aching, all of that was easier to go through. But shaking her memory, the feeling of her touch, the color of her black onyx nail polish, and the taste of her lips as they lingered in an early morning kiss… it was all too much. And now that she was gone forever, it made it even more difficult to get over her.
Did I turn into a stage 3 clinger? Possibly. But I had spent the better part of my life trying to become something I wasn’t for many of my past romances. With her, I had found myself. And I was able to be myself. She was my soulmate; and I had chased her away. Through my addictions. With my temper. Did I frighten her? Did I not pay her enough attention? I had so many questions for her that were never able to be answered; when we were in the same room together, I was so jealous of her relationship with her current love interest that I would act like a complete dick. And then things would sour even more. I stopped coming around, stopped seeing my son. It hurt so much to see her living my dream with someone else... And then she married some biker douche from Pennsylvania. And before I knew it, she killed herself. I wasn’t allowed to say my goodbye. I got notified by the state of Pennsylvania that I had to pick up my son. She was cremated and her remains are God knows where.
The agony that I have within has killed my hope for a happy ever after. I have my son. I am now finding myself to be tested with patience I hadn’t realized I had even had. The unilateral love that he gives me, it is trying to mend my broken heart. But there are moments of the day when I see so much of his mom that it just pains me to even move on. But I do it for him. I guess that’s what it means to truly grow up.
But even though I have lost her, I still have the academy. I have my career. So I’ve been burying myself up to my eyeballs in work. Trying to find that next talent; trying to give the future an opportunity to reach for the stars. And today, an opportunity to help a friend, to help a young talent blossom into a future star—it has fallen at my feet. The little man is excited to see me in action again. My life is not merely some tragedy. I will rewrite my story into one of triumph.
This is a new chapter in my life. No longer will I find my story being told from some book of misery.
Today was the start of a new beginning.
Tonight, I find myself staring up at these stars that shine so bright; they aren’t going to be a representative of the past, dead stars just waiting to shine their last light and fade to darkness. No these stars are going to signal a greater future; one of potential and endless possibilities.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.*
*- William Ernest Henley's "Invictus"
